Page 55 of Omar

Omar locked the door behind us. I set my bag on the counter and turned to face him.

"Hey," I said, unable to hide the smile on my face despite knowing what we were doing was wrong.

"Hey."

He crossed the room to me, slower than the first time. No urgency, no rush. He stopped close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him properly. His hand came up to my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, then down along my jaw to my chin. He tilted my face up and looked at me for a long time without kissing me.

"What?" I whispered.

"Nothing. Just looking."

"You always stare this much?"

"Only at you."

I put my hands on his chest. His heartbeat was steady under my palm. "We got about an hour."

"Then we shouldn't waste it."

He kissed me. Slow this time, his mouth moving against mine with patience, like he had all day even though we both knew he didn't. His hands went to the hem of my sweater and he lifted it over my head, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull the fabric clear. He looked at my bra, then at me, then reached behind me and unhooked it himself. Took it off slowly, sliding the straps down my arms one at a time.

"You're beautiful," he said, his voice low.

"You said that last time."

"I'mma say it every time."

He kissed my neck, my shoulder, the space between my collarbones. His mouth moved down to my breast and his tongue circled my nipple until it hardened and I gripped the back of his head, my fingers curling into his hair.

"Take your shirt off," I told him.

He pulled it over his head and I ran my hands over his chest, his stomach, the scar on his arm from the knife fight. I traced it with my finger, then leaned forward and kissed it. He went still.

"What was that for?" he asked quietly.

"Because it's part of you."

He picked me up. My legs went around his waist and he carried me to the bedroom, his mouth on mine the whole way. He laid me down on the bed and stood over me, looking at me lying there in just my jeans.

"Take yours off," I said.

"You first."

I unbuttoned my jeans and lifted my hips to slide them down. He watched me do it, his eyes moving over every inch of skin as it appeared. I kicked them off the end of the bed and lay there in just my underwear.

"Your turn," I said.

He undid his belt, dropped his jeans, and pulled his boxers down. He was already hard, his dick thick and heavy, and the sight of him standing there naked above me made my stomach tighten in anticipation.

"Come here," I whispered.

He lowered himself onto the bed beside me, not on top of me. On his side, facing me, one hand sliding across my stomach to my hip. His fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear and pulled them down slowly, his knuckles grazing my thigh on the way.

"I think about you when he touches me," I said quietly.

He paused. His hand rested on my bare hip.

"Every time he's near me, every time he puts his hands on me, I close my eyes and it's you." I looked at him. "You're the only person who's ever made me feel like I'm not putting on a front."